


Magnus & Bay: Margaret (White Queen)

by wheel_pen



Series: Magnus and Bay [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cosmic Partners (wheel_pen), F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24409891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: Unfinished. Magnus and Bay’s associate Greg Lestrade takes center stage here, as a 1400s nobleman trying to woo young mother and widow Margaret Beaufort, who doesn’t realize yet the power she has. (Based on the miniseries “The White Queen,” where Lestrade actor Rupert Graves played Margaret’s husband Lord Thomas Stanley.)
Series: Magnus and Bay [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/509205
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Magnus & Bay: Margaret (White Queen)

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that's just how I do things. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in these universes.

You didn’t need much reason to have a feast at Autumnby—not because the Marquess was such a jolly fellow, but because a ‘feast’ was the only plausible way to get in the variety of foods they preferred to eat. Even in the Elder Lands there was a lot of suspicion about fresh fruits and vegetables, and the cooks had to be ordered firmly to work with them. Also the Marchioness _was_ the jolly sort, always looking for a way to decorate with flowers or lace or spun sugar.

Greg just wished he wasn’t the _cause_ of this feast.

He didn’t mind being the center of attention sometimes, but in this case it felt awkward. A marriage involved _two_ people (officially) and celebrating it with only _one_ of them present seemed somehow… disrespectful was too strong a word. Off balance? Inconsiderate? Especially since he was aware that the other party would _not_ be celebrating.

“Are you nervous about seeing her again?” John (aka Bay) asked him quietly, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

“I’m _always_ nervous about seeing her,” Greg confessed. “It’s _Margaret_. You never know what she might do.”

John smiled wryly, understanding the serious sentiment beneath his friend’s slightly cheeky answer. “She might put a curse on you,” Ben (aka Magnus) cut in, less concerned with Greg’s feelings.

Greg rolled his eyes at the indiscreet comment. “She’s very devout,” he rephrased. That was considered a virtue in this time and place, not something to fear or make fun of.

“Tedious,” he heard Ben predict, half-muttered into his cup of wine.

“It will be so nice to see her again!” Agnes (aka Ruby) insisted in a bubbly tone, tearing her gaze away from the performing tumblers for a moment.

“You don’t even like her,” Ben shot back. “She certainly won’t like _you_.”

This comment was met with disapproving noises from the other diners at the main table, but Agnes merely rolled her eyes, unoffended. You had to have thick skin to be married to Ben. “It’s nice when we’re all together,” she specified. John glanced at Enid (aka Galena), who gave a little smirk of amusement knowing that _togetherness_ often wasn’t so enjoyable with this crowd.

“When do you leave tomorrow?” John asked, trying to move the conversation along.

Greg was grateful for his attempt at normalcy; he really _was_ nervous about meeting Margaret, in a way men of this era weren’t supposed to admit to. “First light,” he replied, his tone suggesting this was an optimistic assessment. “There may be a lot of squealing when the girls are forced up.” His stepdaughters were not fond of rising early.

John chuckled pleasantly. “Who are you bringing?”

Greg grimaced, not sure if he’d made the right decision. “The Parrish girls,” he sighed, and John’s eyebrows shot up.

“All five?” he asked, trying not to sound too dubious.

“I would’ve left Eleanor off”—she was the youngest—“but you know how she is, she wouldn’t stand for it.” John nodded in understanding. “The others ought to be paraded around a bit, see the world.” Be seen to potential husbands—that was how this world worked.

“Oh, you couldn’t leave out Eleanor,” Ben cut in again, when Greg didn’t even think he’d been listening. “After all, she’s the same age as your new bride, isn’t she?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Margaret’s fourteen,” he corrected. That was a year older than Eleanor, though close enough, and of course that wasn’t Ben’s point. “Well, I can’t help how old she is,” Greg noted, trying not to get defensive. Ben laughed at his irritation and clapped him on the shoulder, reminding him he was among friends, and he relaxed a bit. “Anyway, I had to grab her up as soon as she was free, or someone else would get her.”

“You’re not going to manage the Parrish girls all by yourself?” John suggested lightly. “I think Margaret would eat them alive.”

“No, no,” Greg assured him, shuddering at the idea of being out on the road with the teenage girls alone. “Anne’s going with us, she’ll help keep order.”

John nodded, then asked, “Wait, which Anne?”

Greg blinked. “Oh. Both of them,” he tried to clarify. The lack of variety in first names could make things confusing. “Nancy Stowe, and Anne Starling. I thought that would be a nice set.”

“She’ll have some of her own ladies to bring as well, I presume,” Enid suggested, and Greg sighed.

“Yes, I’m going to be surrounded. I’ll be lucky if I can even _speak_ to Margaret.” At least without a dozen people listening in. “William and Thomas Stowe are coming along, though. They’re quite sensible.” Those were his stepsons who were about his same age. That had been awkward at first, but over time they had become friends.

“And Henry Worth?” Ben teased, causing Greg to roll his eyes.

“Yes,” he agreed. “ _Not_ sensible.” Truthfully he was hoping _this_ stepson might see someone or something in the larger world that he would prefer to chasing dairy maids on Springdale.

“You’ll be stuck with them a bloody long time,” Ben observed tactlessly. “Riding all the way to Wales and back? Why don’t you take a ship?” Agnes squealed in excitement and drew his attention to the performers, who were contorting themselves into unnatural shapes. Agnes loved the contortionists.

“Some of the girls get seasick,” Greg replied distractedly, feeling slightly ill himself as one performer, balanced on his hands, touched his feet to his own head. “Where do you find these people?”

“The Elder Lands welcome all sorts of degenerates,” Ben claimed cheekily, as John rolled his eyes. “Margaret will fit right in.”

**

He set out at first light—more or less—the next day, riding away from Autumnby with a large retinue of family members, attendants, servants, and guards. Noblemen did not travel lightly these days. Also coaches hadn’t really been invented yet—the best one could do was a covered litter, usually for the ill or elderly—so everyone rode their horses, a small army on the march. Technically their journey had begun the day before, when they left Springdale for Autumnby, a necessary and welcome diversion. They would pass through Summerfall on their way out of the Elder Lands, but needn’t stop as Lord Miles was not in residence. He and his wife Anthea were at the English court in London; he was the Elder Lands’ official ambassador there. Which meant that, officially, Ben was in charge on the ground—enough to give anyone doubts about their future, except it was really John, Greg, and Enid who did most of the work. A much more satisfactory arrangement.

The weather grew warmer as they left Autumnby for Summerfall—the sky seemed bluer, the birds more cheerful, the light clearer. It was a shame Lord Miles was not at home to enjoy his lands more; but then, he _wouldn’t_ have enjoyed them, so far from the world of earthly power. He was in his element in London. And the lands certainly weren’t going to waste—there were plenty of villages and farms in Summerfall that the riders passed by, and the inhabitants always looked up from hoeing their gardens or trimming their hedges to smile and wave.

Eleanor maneuvered her horse over to Greg. “Papa?”

“Yes, my dear?” She had been only five when Greg became her stepfather, and only eight when her mother died—he’d had the most hand in raising her and her sisters, compared to his other stepchildren.

“What will Lady Margaret be like?” Eleanor wanted to know. It wasn’t the first time she had asked this question; he knew she was hoping for a different answer than he usually gave. “Will she be kind and loving? Like Nanny Hudson?”

Greg coughed a little, trying to picture it. “No, she won’t be like Nanny Hudson,” he said firmly. In more ways than one. “Lady Margaret is very young. I told you that, she’s only a bit older than you.”

“And Nanny Hudson is very old,” Eleanor nodded.

Greg barked out a laugh. “Don’t let _her_ hear you say that,” he advised. “Lady Margaret is very pious,” he added, his tone slightly warning. “You girls must behave yourselves, and go to Mass when she says.”

“I heard she hears Mass three times a day,” Elizabeth chimed in, her tone superior for having this knowledge.

“Three times!” Eleanor sighed. “How does she get anything done?”

Greg thought that was a fair question. “Well, she’ll be the Viscountess,” he noted, “so she’ll be in charge of you girls.”

“We won’t have any fun at all!” Matilda complained, and Greg was already beginning to feel surrounded.

“Well, if you don’t like it, you can go live somewhere else,” Greg told them, which he meant as a genuine option, not a threat. “You’ve family enough around. You could go live with Nancy!” he teased, seeing the older woman glance at them.

“Mmm,” she replied noncommittally, not fond of the idea of high-spirited teenagers disturbing the solitude of her little country house.

“I’d take them,” Anne Starling chimed in mischievously. “They can look after the children, help the cook, tend the garden…”

Clearly neither of these options was appealing to the Parrish girls. “Well _I’m_ hoping to meet a handsome young gentleman on the road,” Katherine declared boldly, and Greg twisted around to give her a look.

“A penny for every report about Katherine speaking to a man,” he announced, making her younger sisters twitter excitedly. “ _True_ reports, mind.”

Katherine huffed, unamused. “I thought that was the point of dragging us out on this trip,” she grumbled. “To see and be seen.”

“You don’t need to _talk_ to anyone to be seen,” Greg reminded her sternly. He didn’t like to be excessively patriarchal—though this was certainly the era for it—but with flighty young ladies like Katherine you had to keep a sharp eye out. A moment of youthful recklessness could easily get out of hand with her. Now a girl like Frances was much more cautious, and Eleanor was too stubborn to be pressured.

He was beginning to think Eleanor and Margaret had a lot in common.

“You remember she’s been married already?” he went on idly. “Lady Margaret?”

“Yes, to Edmund Tudor,” Eleanor replied immediately. “And she has a baby.”

“Her husband died before the baby was even born!” Matilda recalled. “That’s so sad.”

Well, not so much for Greg, since he was getting the benefit of it.

“Imagine, already being a mother and a widow, before you’re even Frances’s age,” Elizabeth sniffed. Frances’s expression indicated she did not find this a very pleasant thing to imagine.

“I’m sure it’s been very difficult for her,” Greg remarked evenly. “She hasn’t had much choice in things, you know. Perhaps that’s why she’s so devout. But of course you girls will make her feel welcome,” he added pointedly.

“Isn’t she quite rich?” Katherine asked snidely, and one of the Annes tsked her.

“ _I’m_ quite rich,” Greg pointed out, which was perhaps a bit vulgar, but he didn’t want anyone to think he was just marrying Margaret for her money. “What would I do with estates in Wales and Sussex anyway? I’d have to leave _you_ charming girls to attend them.”

“Henry!” Anne Starling called to her younger brother. “Come ride with me. You’re falling behind!”

Greg rolled his eyes when he spotted the young man off his horse, flirting with a goose girl by the side of the road. “Henry!” he snapped irritably. He caught the eye of the Stowe brothers—it made more sense to think of them as his liegemen than his stepsons at this point—and nodded to the errant young man. They immediately pulled out of line to fetch him.

“What is so hard about settling down?” Greg grumbled, and not for the first time. “If he wants to marry a goose girl, I’m all for it, I’m no snob.” His daughters had heard this complaint before and the younger ones drifted away, trying to be subtle about it. “The operative word being _marry_ ,” he went on, checking back to see that Henry had been rounded up. “Not just dally with, then run off.”

“Oh, my lord, he was just talking to her,” Anne Starling chided affectionately.

“It always starts with just talking,” Greg replied knowingly. Exactly the problem with Katherine also. Really, a gentleman had his fun with a goose girl or a dairy maid—hopefully they were having fun as well, Greg didn’t think he had to worry about _that_ with Henry at least, he wasn’t violent—and then he moved on with no harm done to _him_ , but the girl could easily have her reputation ruined, or even become pregnant. Of course she should think of that as well before choosing to participate, but Greg sometimes thought young gentlemen didn’t realize just how intimidating they could be, just by being a gentleman, even a charming one. Of course, it was no problem for Greg to provide for any illegitimate children, but he didn’t like cleaning up after people who should know better.

Anne had always had a soft spot for her little brother, though. “Not every young man is ready to settle down with a widow twice his age and raise her children,” she reminded him—but again with affection. Her stepfather was a kind and generous man, she thought, but sometimes he forgot other people had different ways of doing things.

“Always marry widows,” Greg replied cheekily. That was his apparent philosophy. “Less to explain.” Anne smirked and shook her head.

“What would you have to explain?” Eleanor demanded in a sassy tone.

“Never you mind,” Greg warned her, while Anne laughed at him. “Er, household management,” he then claimed. “Very tedious to explain to a novice.”

“I doubt Lady Margaret will know much about household management,” Elizabeth put in. “She was married and widowed in so short a time, and she’s so young, surely other people take care of that for her.”

“Oh, I expect Lady Margaret will have a few ideas of her own,” Greg predicted dryly. “Which you are to abide by, or move out,” he warned again. “I won’t have any more dramatics.” Of course, with five teenage girls in the household, things got dramatic on a regular basis.

Soon they could see the mountains looming up that marked the border of the Elder Lands. There was only one way in and one way out, a closely-guarded mountain pass. Well, that wasn’t strictly true; there was a pass through the mountains to the north, if you wanted to go to Scotland, but why would you? And both Springdale and Summerfall had costal access, if you wanted to take a ship as Ben had suggested, but no one was ever worried about unauthorized visitors coming in by that route. Why should they be? Remarkably, in this world there were such things as Elder Lords, who wielded mysterious and magic power, thus neatly covering everything Greg and his friends wanted to do anyway, with their separate mysterious abilities.

Maybe they really _were_ Elder Lords. It was hard to remember after a while.

Greg stopped his horse at the gatehouse that surrounded the pass and the rest of his entourage rippled to a halt as well. “We’ll take a few minutes here,” he announced, dismounting, and the others quickly fell out of formation. The servants spread blankets on the grass under the trees and broke out the food for the upper-crust travelers, while the grooms led the horses to a nearby stream. They were still on Summerfall and it was indeed a brilliant summer day.

Greg handed his written permission from Ben to cross the pass to the captain of the gatehouse, then peered through the opening with a grimace. “What’s it like out there?” he asked. It seemed a bit cloudy.

“Cool, with a fine mist in the air,” the captain reported dispassionately. He handed Greg’s orders back to him. “At your pleasure, my lord.”

Greg kept an eye on the time—the gatehouse maintained a clock tied to the world beyond the Elder Lands—and let people rest as long as possible before rounding them all up. There was an inn a few miles beyond the pass which received much business from the Elder Lords, and Greg would stop there for the night. That always made the first travel day a bit light, but the rest of the journey would be wearying, and the shock of moving from the Elder Lands to the outside world could be difficult. When coming home it was wonderful to walk into Summerfall first; when leaving, it could be heartbreaking. Greg left when duty called and he did so without complaint; but left to his own devices he preferred to stay home.

Greg rode out first, passing through the gate that was only wide enough for a cart. Behind him came his standard-bearer, the Springdale pennant fluttering atop a pole that he held straight for hours on end. He was flanked by a couple guards, who were also interspersed throughout the rest of the crowd. Otherwise the order was a loose hierarchy—the noble family members, and also sometimes their attendants, who were the children of knights and merchants and possibly barons; behind them were the servants, all commoners, though some were illegitimate family members, the results of the ‘dallying’ Greg so despised. Couldn’t blame the offspring, though, of course, and service in the Viscount’s household was considered a mark of trust and honor, as well as a sustainable career path. The servants walked, or drove the baggage wagons, which lumbered along at the end, save for the last of the soldiers. As they rode, people would move around, finding whoever they wanted to talk to—within the social parameters, of course—but Greg always liked to start each trip a little more formal.

Giddy laughter rose behind him and he smiled a little to himself. For all he complained, his stepdaughters were good girls, and he really did hope he would find nice husbands for them on this trip, if husbands were what they wanted. He suspected Frances might rather follow Nancy Stowe’s path, and be her own mistress with her books and her garden. Glancing back, Greg could see the two of them chatting. That was alright with him; he held the view, unnatural in this era, that a woman should marry who and when she wished, and _if_ she wished, with perhaps just a little guidance from those older and wiser, which was the same as Greg did with his stepsons. He wouldn’t even mind if either preferred a companion of the same sex, which was outright heretical and not something one talked about much, even in the Elder Lands. But if you hung around Autumnby long enough you’d eventually catch Ben, Agnes, John, and Enid engaging in rather unusual behavior, and you either got over it or moved on.

Greg had more than just stepchildren in the party; when he was just a fresh-faced lad of nineteen, coming in to his own and understanding his powers, he’d married the widow Stowe, whose eldest children were around Greg’s own age. When _she_ had been his age, she’d married Charles Stowe, who was about forty and a widower with some children _her_ age. Nonetheless she’d helped to raise the younger ones and Greg maintained the connection, though calling _them_ his stepchildren was rather a stretch. Several lived in Springdale or other Elder Lands and their children, even grandchildren, were part of Greg’s troupe to the outside world. They weren’t _all_ hunting for fresh blood for spouses; some had never left the Elder Lands before, because why would you, and someone wanted them to have exposure to the wider world. It was educational. Maybe their parents wanted them to attend college one day, see Europe, serve at the English court, take up a career like the Royal Navy or a merchant. There weren’t opportunities like that in the Elder Lands, even if you were living in peace and plenty.

The sky was gray here and the air chilly; everyone pulled on cloaks that soon beaded with moisture from the air. It was no worse than a lesser day at Springdale, but unpleasant after the glory of Summerfall. No one rode up to talk to Greg and the straight road did not require much attention. Another reason he didn’t like leaving the Elder Lands was it reminded him of the times he had done so before, particularly the same errand he was on this time—claiming a bride.

He knew he couldn’t have biological children. _They_ never could. Or, so rarely as to not be worth considering. He did like kids, though, and he was a kind person at heart, so when he hadn’t picked up on Margaret’s presence he found himself a nice older widow with children. In this society a widow was sometimes the most advantageous position for a woman—left with her husband’s money and lands but no one to tell her what to do, she might finally find a measure of independence. That was the ideal situation. But if her husband had left no money or lands, or there were grasping relatives trying to take them away from her, a widow might need to turn to another man for help, especially if she had young children to care for. And who knew what kind of man he would be.

Greg, of course, had made himself a good choice for Mary, and made sure her first husband’s lands had stayed with his children. Of course there were a lot of children; but he was happy to provide for the rest himself in Springdale. Nancy Stowe, his scholarly, unmarried stepdaughter, had been just nine when he married her mother, and nineteen when she died. It was ten pleasant years and Greg wouldn’t have minded more, even if he was really waiting for Margaret; these things often had an odd way of working out, though, because really, Mary should’ve lived to a ripe old age on Springdale. No one there died at just fifty.

Three years later, he’d been out visiting his stepchildren and looking around a bit, and met another widow. Elizabeth Ellis had buried two husbands and had nine children, a big house, and no money. That was fine with Greg. Unfortunately Elizabeth had only lived for three years after that. At least no one could accuse Greg of killing her for her fortune.

That was five years ago. After a few years he was getting restless, wondering if he should try again, and then—Margaret had popped up on his radar. It was always strange with Margaret. She tended to have started adult life at a young age—here, she’d been married and had a baby at thirteen, which wasn’t considered immoral but perhaps slightly eyebrow-raising. Funny thing, she usually _did_ have a baby, just the one, usually not Greg’s. And she was always a handful. Fiercely intelligent, passionate, fanatically devoted to something, with an arrogance to rival Ben’s, self-importance to rival Miles’s.

G-d, Greg missed her so much.

He was forty now, the prime of life here but the decline could be swift—not for him of course but people wouldn’t realize that. And Margaret was fourteen. People would normally suggest waiting another couple of years before marrying her, if she hadn’t been married once already, which told you something about the ambitions of her mother right there. She was on her third husband, and had progressively moved up the ranks each time. Can’t fault a woman for using whatever she had to get ahead here. Well, almost. Using your thirteen-year-old daughter was a bit much.

But fortunately Edmund Tudor had died of the fever after producing a male heir, so Lady Beauchamp could claim his estates for her grandson. Which effectively meant _her_ , because she or her liegemen would be keeping control of baby Henry. And Margaret was free to be married off again. Convenient, that.

Henry Stowe—that was one of Mary’s stepchildren, quite a bit older than Greg, who nonetheless had done well by being open-minded about their relationship—had been doing the negotiating on Greg’s behalf, and had passed on Lady Beauchamp’s plans to him. Margaret objected, to being separated from her son at least, and possibly also to being married again; she had ambitions of being a nun. Here was a case where being a widow, even a rich one, gained you nothing. Lady Beauchamp was an example of just the opposite.

Greg wished he could acquire baby Henry for Margaret. It was always like this, a bitter power struggle between mother and daughter. But nothing would change Lady Beauchamp’s mind on baby Henry—not money nor land, not that Greg had much of the latter to offer her in the outside world. Henry Stowe said she would not be moved on this point; she had plans for her grandson, plans she was sure Margaret would corrupt. Magic would have changed her mind, of course, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to use it—it seemed wrong. She wasn’t going to _hurt_ Henry, after all.

And the negotiations were rather delicate. Greg was not perhaps the ideal husband, in Lady Beauchamp’s mind. There were all kinds of rumors about Elder Lords, about their practices and beliefs. Margaret would not get exposure at court, she would be locked away in an isolated land. (It was possible this didn’t bother her mother.) So there was a limit to the glory of being a viscountess. Greg was rich, but Lady Beauchamp was also. In fact Margaret came with a rather large dowry, her inheritance as her late father’s sole child, which Lady Beauchamp didn’t like to lose control of; and Greg couldn’t agree to leave it in her charge, when it wasn’t his to dispose of. Well, technically, or perhaps realistically, he could; but he wouldn’t.

He could promise that his own holdings would go to Margaret when he died, though. That was a rich prize. And considering their respective ages and the general standard of hygiene around here, Lady Beauchamp had every reason to believe that could happen soon-ish. Duke Miles had also kicked in some property he’d bought around England, which was nice of him, though not as extraordinary as it might seem, if only because he was invested in seeing all of their kind reunited. Still, it was generous of him, and along with flat-out cash (currently rolling along in the wagons behind Greg disguised as bags of oats), they had finally come up with a deal Lady Beauchamp could accept.

Margaret would be another story entirely.

They were welcomed heartily at the inn—a large party from the Elder Lands was always good for business—but being used to higher standards than the outside world could currently attain, even the best inn wasn’t entirely comfortable. Unbeknownst to the others Greg protected them against truly serious illness and injury, but they still had to choke down mushy stew, suffer flea bites in bed, and use chamber pots. At least they’d brought their own fruit with them.

Frances slipped onto the bench beside him as he stared aimlessly into the fire. “Papa?”

“Yes, my dear?” he replied, glad for the distraction.

“Do you think it will be very strange, having a stepmother?” she questioned. “Especially one younger than me.”

He could hardly fault the girls for their anxiety when he felt the same way. “Well, I had two stepmothers, and the second was not much older than me,” he reminded her. Despite trying three increasingly younger wives his father had never been able to produce another child, which Greg felt was probably _his_ fault. John had his sister usually, and then there was Ben and Miles; but Greg was usually alone, like Enid and Agnes.

“Of course you’ll spend more time with her, than I did with mine,” he allowed. Gender relations being what they were. “I expect Margaret will have ideas about how things should be done”—understatement of the year—“but you let me know if you’re upset about something. Really, there’s lots of other places you could go.”

Frances twined her arm around his and laid her head on his shoulder. “I don’t want to leave you, Papa.”

Greg smiled and kissed her head. One didn’t need a biological child to feel that kind of warm affection. “I don’t want you to leave either, my dear,” he assured her. “So we’ll just see how it goes, alright? Maybe you and Margaret will become friends.” She glanced up at him with a very dubious look. “Well, try to make her feel welcome, anyway,” he requested. “I know you will. I expect she’s had a rather lonely life without many other people her age.”

“I wouldn’t want to have been married at thirteen,” Frances empathized.

“No, indeed,” Greg agreed heartily. Just because one facet of biology said a girl might be able to bear children, didn’t mean you should rush out and put it to the test. “We will wait until you’re ready,” he promised. “And also when _I’m_ ready, whichever comes last,” he added, thinking of Katherine.

This made Frances laugh a little and she reached up to kiss his cheek, then left to sit with her sisters and cousins. This was not the normal thing other girls heard from their male guardians and no doubt some people thought he was dangerously indulgent. But Greg didn’t need to make alliances for land, money, or political capital, and he wasn’t interested in doing it just for fun, either, the way Lord Miles did. Though, the Duke was always looking for fresh Elder Lands-associated youths to display around court, and Greg knew he kept a careful eye on things to make sure no one was miserable. Maybe a high-spirited girl like Katherine would thrive in that environment—Matilda, too. And he could always recall them if they misbehaved. He resolved to write the Duke that night, to see if there were any openings in his London household. Asking the girls could wait until he’d heard back, so they wouldn’t get too excited and start plotting already. Or harassing Elizabeth about not joining them—she was definitely not ready for court life, Greg thought.

They were up bright and early the next morning—no lazing about when they had to cover a long distance. There were earlier inns they could stop at, but Greg didn’t want to drag the journey out. Frankly he was eager to see Margaret and get her firmly in his possession before her mother found a better offer and broke their contract.

**

The journey took ten days. The novelty wore off quickly. Getting back on the horses was harder each day in an era without aspirin or hot baths, and Greg finally had to ease some soreness himself so they wouldn’t all be miserable. The weather remained unseasonably cool and damp, and the roads were muddy in spots where creeks had flooded with earlier rains. Some vistas were very nice, of course; but compared to the Elder Lands poverty was rampant and peasants tended to stare at them sulkily instead of waving. Plus, everything smelled. Even Katherine began to talk less of finding a husband out here, seeing how she might be stuck living.

Well, humanity as a whole had survived it, anyway.

On the border of Wales they stayed two days with Lord Harrington, waiting for the river to go down and also arranging things for their meeting with Lady Beauchamp, whose estate was not far away. Just on the other side of a foaming, raging river. Greg could hardly sit still and converse with his host at dinner—he wanted a better view of the river, to see how noticeable it would be if he calmed it.

“Bad luck about Edmund Tudor,” Lord Harrington was saying, as if he didn’t really think it bad luck at all.

“Tragic,” Greg replied neutrally.

“Good luck for Lady Beauchamp,” his host went on dryly. “I offered up one of my own sons for Lady Margaret, but unfortunately he was not to her mother’s liking.” He indicated a strapping teenager currently surrounded by Greg’s stepdaughters.

“Ah, I see the problem,” Greg claimed lightly. “Too young and healthy.”

Lord Harrington chuckled, thought about it, then chuckled again in a knowing way. Lady Beauchamp must be a h—l of a neighbor. “Also I’ve met the girl,” he went on, in a negative tone. “I thought better of having her dreary little shadow lurking around the castle all day.”

Greg did not take offense; he knew Margaret was an acquired taste. “What’s she like, then?” he inquired innocently.

Lord Harrington gave it some thought before answering. “Fanatically self-possessed,” he finally declared, which might be hard to picture if you didn’t already know Margaret. “I think she actually believes that she is in direct communication with God, and that her will is His own.”

“Yeah, I heard she was the religious type,” Greg commented casually, knocking back his wine. As he’d hoped, his tone encouraged Harrington to set him straight.

“The religious type?” he snorted. “That’s like saying Jeanne d’Arc was the religious type.” The young French woman’s rebellious exploits were only a generation removed and still fresh in the collective memory. “Stubborn, self-righteous… One look from her and you’ll know what it is to be judged and found wanting,” he warned. Greg started to wonder if it was his son or actually _him_ who’d been rejected. At last Lord Harrington remembered who he was talking to. “But I’m sure you’ll manage her,” he claimed, less convincingly. “She just needs a firm male hand, never really had that. I’m sure you’ll put her in her place.”

“Well, we can only hope,” Greg replied, knowing Harrington would miss the sarcasm.

**

Finally the river slowed and they were able to cross. It was hardly the dignified procession Greg would’ve liked to present—a lot of wet and mud, swearing that could probably be heard all the way at Lady Beauchamp’s manor, balky horses and carts, and sulky teenage girls.

“Well sorry,” Greg told them, once they were all safely on the other side. “Make do. We’re not setting up a camp when we’re this close. George! I want this mud off my boots, now!”

“My dress is ruined!” Elizabeth moaned.

“It’s barely damp,” Greg insisted.

“My feet are soaked!” Eleanor complained.

“Well at least they’re clean,” Greg shot back.

“This cape will never come clean!” sobbed Matilda.

They were everywhere Greg looked. “Good G-d,” he swore. “You know what I need? Another one of you little blighters running around bawling at me!”

For some reason—probably for the best overall, but not good for his dignity—this made them laugh, heartlessly. “You oughtn’t swear like that, my lord,” Nancy Stowe chided. “What will Lady Margaret think?”

Good point, and Greg had no suitable words to acknowledge her, only more oaths. “George!” he repeated. “Why am I standing here barefoot? Get a move on!”

Finally they got more or less into shape and Greg started the train again, trying to look respectable with his standard-bearer behind him and everyone lined up the right way. Unfortunately he couldn’t help glancing back a few times and glaring people back into line, which somehow only resulted in giggles. At least Henry Worth was behaving himself, still mooning over one of Lord Harrington’s daughters. For the moment, anyway.

Their destination loomed into view around a curve in the road, and Greg’s attention snapped into place as he sensed Margaret’s presence keenly. He had known she was in existence for well over a year and with her family so prominent it hadn’t taken too long to locate her, and he could feel her in the back of his mind all this long way south from the Elder Lands, a vague tingling like something important he mustn’t forget. The closer he got the stronger and more specific the pull, until he could hardly think of anything else. He alternated between longing and chiding himself; he had to stay in control, he could _not_ act like a lovesick boy—not only would that make him look undesirably foolish, it could be seen as insultingly insincere. Marriage negotiations were full enough of that already. But just when he thought he was finally resolved he would think, “Did Ben stay in control when he finally sensed John? How circumspect were either of _them_ while pursuing Agnes and Enid? And when Anthea popped up in Miles’s view—” Well, _that_ had been a mild scandal. And Greg had laughed at them all—fondly—and understood, but he always forgot that his own time was coming. He just wasn’t comfortable appearing eccentric, was Ben’s assessment.

Thus conflicted he rode closer, and his eyes darted to one of the towers flanking the gate. There was a narrow window, which he couldn’t see through, but he knew Margaret was there—perhaps watching him, curious to get a glimpse of her future husband even if she wouldn’t admit it. Or perhaps now turning away quickly, wondering if she’d been caught, because he could not drag his eyes from that spot until his horse carried him through the gate into the courtyard and cut it off from view.

Lady Beauchamp descended from the entrance to the keep as though she was a queen, attendants fluttering behind her. Margaret was not with her, of course—Greg knew exactly where she was in the building, coming closer but hardly hurrying to join them. He dismounted and greeted the woman formally, noting the slight crystallizing of her expression as she assessed him. “Lord Lestrade,” she greeted in return. “I see you have had a long journey to reach us.” In other words, you’re dirty and unimpressive.

“Just a little trouble with the river, milady,” Greg assured her politely. He introduced the Stowe brothers and Anne Starling, but stopped there as he could already see his hostess getting bored. They would be here for a month (less if Greg could wrangle leaving early) so she’d have time to get to know all of them, if she cared to (which she likely didn’t).

“And how is the Lady Margaret?” Greg couldn’t stop himself from asking. Her absence was conspicuous, he told himself. “I have heard so much of her, I look forward to meeting her.”

“At prayer,” Lady Beauchamp claimed piously. “No doubt giving thanks for your safe arrival after a perilous journey.”

Greg smiled, admiring the sincerity she managed to put on these words. “Yes, I have heard the lady is very—” He cut himself off then as his eyes were drawn to the front door, where a lone figure stood. Too far away to discern much, other than being small and plainly dressed, one could easily mistake her for a servant, until she began to approach with a confidence servants did not show under the eyes of their betters.

Lady Beauchamp turned to follow his gaze. “Ah, here is the Lady Margaret now,” she said brightly, a note of strain in her voice. She did not want Margaret at this meeting.

Greg knew his staring was unseemly and tried to make his posture a little more normal—formal, reserved—but he could not tear his gaze away from hers. At least _her_ staring was even more unseemly than _his_ , being a woman who was supposed to act with modesty. Her clothes were not ostentatious like her mother’s, but as she drew closer he could see they were of fine fabric, well-made. Margaret was devout, but her modesty had limits, because she was also proud. The way she walked with her head held high, with the dispassion of a queen secure on her throne with no need to ingratiate herself, said as much. Her face was not what many would call beautiful—more strong, distinctive, with a fierce intelligence burning in her dark eyes. And she was very young and very small, smaller even than Eleanor, and had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact when she reached her mother’s side.

Impulsively, Greg dropped to one knee, finally looking away so he could take her pale hand and kiss it. As much as he’d longed to see her, he almost wished they had met later, away from everyone else, so his odd behavior would be less noticeable. To be in her presence again after so long was overwhelming.

“Lady Margaret,” he greeted, keeping his head bowed, “it is an honor for you to be my bride.” He looked up again then, hardly daring to, and met her gaze, and what he saw there stopped his breath.

She recognized him.

Things were a blur after that. Margaret didn’t get a chance to reply; Lady Beauchamp jumped in with another veiled insult, and Greg obviously at some point got back on his feet and made the right noises, because he vaguely remembered coming in to the hall and being shown to his room. George was unpacking his things, including a change of clothes, and there was hot water available for the good scrubbing Lady Beauchamp obviously thought they needed.

His door burst open to reveal Eleanor, in a temper. Greg made a noise of protest. “I might not have been decent!”

“I’m to share a bedroom with Frances _and_ Elizabeth, _and_ Abby and Betsy and Dottie!” she protested.

“So what?” Greg dismissed grumpily, washing his face. “I warned you it would be crowded. There’s a bed, isn’t there? Your maids can sleep on the floor.” With so many visitors, that was considered top-notch accommodations in a wealthy house.

“Elizabeth snores,” Eleanor added grouchily.

“Smother her with a pillow,” Greg advised. He had a feeling Lady Beauchamp’s servants were going to have a lot to report to her about his behavior. “You should take a nap before dinner so you aren’t so crabby,” he added, wishing he could do the same. Eleanor huffed. “Go away now, I’m changing. Out!” She left in a swirl of skirts, pointedly not closing the door, and George had to do it.

Once he was more presentable Greg found himself bereft of something to do. Normally he played his part well—doting father, conscientious master, etc.. But right now he was a little distracted, and all the normal social conventions seemed suddenly unimportant. Everyone else could take care of themselves for a while, he decided, heading down the stairs. He followed Margaret’s trail and was somehow not surprised to find himself at the castle’s chapel. After a moment’s hesitation he opened the door quietly and slipped inside.

Greg definitely had spiritual beliefs, but it was difficult to stick to one particular doctrine once he’d remembered all the things he’d experienced in other lives. In this country there was only one religion, however, and he knew the motions to go through to blend in with it. Margaret knelt alone at the rail, her attendants allegedly deep in prayer behind her, though most noticed Greg’s appearance with interest.

He knelt at the rail beside her, clasping his hands together for a moment. The altar was elaborate, beautiful, sparkling with gold and gems, the objects and paintings finely made as befitted Lady Beauchamp’s status and tastes. Margaret had her eyes closed against it, her hands squeezing each other tightly. She had no rosary that Greg could see, though several of the other ladies who at least tried to be pious were fingering theirs. Greg suspected saying the rosary was too rote for someone like Margaret.

“My lady,” he murmured, leaning over to her, “may I speak with you?” She didn’t answer and he sat back, prepared to wait. Clearly she was in the middle of an important conversation.

After a bout a minute he saw her relax slightly and start to unbend herself. He wondered if she’d even heard him; then she replied quietly, “You may walk with me in the chapel garden.”

They both rose, followed stiffly by her attendants, who were obviously not as used to this sort of thing. Margaret swept out of the chapel by a side door, emerging in a cool garden of greenery and fountains. Greg walked by her side along the path, his hands held behind his back, while the gaggle of attendants trailed a few feet behind. Of course they would not be left alone.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted you, milady,” Greg opened.

“I would not allow myself to be interrupted at prayer,” Margaret replied, which was somehow both arrogant and reassuring.

Now that the moment had come Greg was not sure what he wanted to say, at least among things that could be safely overheard. “Do you know much of the Elder Lands?” he asked her.

“No one does,” she said tartly. “They are mysterious, and full of pagans.”

“True on both counts,” Greg agreed dryly. “We do have some lovely Catholic chapels, you would be able to worship as you pleased.”

“That would be necessary,” Margaret confirmed. She kept stealing glances at him and Greg forced himself to look away so she wouldn’t be caught. She stumbled over a loose brick and Greg hurried to grab her arm, slender but sturdy.

“Alright?”

“Yes, thank you.” Reluctantly he released her. “Are they very prosperous, your lands?” Margaret questioned.

“Yes,” Greg told her, trying to make the small talk last. “Prosperous and safe. Mainly farms and villages, no large cities. On the way back we will go through a city, perhaps Brixton, to purchase the goods we lack.”

“And are the people terribly savage?”

Greg turned to her to see if she was joking, but naturally she wasn’t. “Not really,” he promised. “Just people. Happier than most because they aren’t starving.”

“But they lack God,” Margaret noted matter-of-factly. “So they can never be truly happy.”

“Are you happy, milady?” Greg asked lightly. He meant it to be slightly teasing, but her thoughtful expression only deepened.

“I have a mission from God,” Margaret explained. This was more important than happiness. “He uses me to fulfill His will.”

Greg nodded. “Any specific mission at the moment?”

Margaret looked at him sharply. “Are you mocking me?” She was very sensitive on this point.

“No, my love,” he assured her, the endearment slipping out. “But if we are to be married, I would like to know what you’re working on.”

She seemed satisfied with his sincerity. “I have an important destiny,” she tried to describe. She might have just been listing her current title, she was so matter-of-fact. “And so does my son, Henry.”

“Yes, is he here?” Greg asked her, knowing the subject might be a sore one. “Will I get to meet him soon?”

“He’s here,” Margaret confirmed. She stopped on the path and turned to face him fully, her dark eyes scanning his face. “My mother will not allow him to accompany me.”

“Yes, I know,” Greg agreed soberly.

“She said you offered her a great deal of money to change her mind. Why?” she demanded suspiciously.

“He’s your son,” Greg shrugged, knowing this was a test. “I thought you would want to keep him close. My two previous wives—”

“Left you many stepchildren, yes,” Margaret finished.

“I consider them my own now,” Greg said. “Mine to care for.” He resisted making a joking about their occasional poor behavior, sensing she was not in the mood.

“You had none of your own?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It was an impertinent question, and one impossible to answer for most people in this time, who had little idea about infertility issues. Of course, Greg’s real reason was something different. He smiled slowly down at her. “Perhaps it is God’s way of making sure I take care of my wives’ children, instead of favoring my own,” he suggested.

He could see the wheels turning in her brain as she parsed this. “Henry is very special,” she finally repeated.

“Yes. We will keep trying to gain custody of him,” Greg promised, keeping his voice down. Her bored attendants had stopped on the other side of a splashing fountain and he took the opportunity to lean in close. “Milady, I would know if you consent to this marriage,” he murmured, then pulled back.

Margaret was startled by the question. Though a parent might make flowery assurances of the bride’s love for her groom-to-be, in reality her consent was not merely assumed, it was considered nonapplicable. It was like asking if a horse consented to be bought. Especially when Greg asked in such a grave way, to indicate his serious consideration of the issue. It was not merely formulaic.

Margaret raised her chin a notch and he fought the urge to smile at the familiar gesture; she would think he was, in fact, trifling with her. “And if I do not?” she asked icily.

“Then it will not occur,” Greg promised, letting his disappointment at this idea strengthen his sincerity. He could contrive all kinds of ways to bring them together, but Margaret had to say the final word of her own free will. That was the agreement they had, whether she remembered that right now or not.

The attendants glanced over and began to shift closer, sensing a change in mood, and Greg stepped back. “Please think on what I’ve said, milady,” he told her formally. “I look forward to your response.” With that he bowed and took his leave, forcing himself not to look back.

George was fairly hopping around his room when Greg returned, eager to share the news he’d learned from the household servants. “They say the Lady Margaret is mad!” he opened excitedly.

Greg rolled his eyes. “And why is that?”

“Her last marriage contract was with one of Lord Bolton’s sons,” George continued, and Greg whistled. That would have been a lucrative match for Lady Beauchamp. “But when he arrived for the wedding, Lady Margaret screamed at him and cursed him. And threw crockery!” George was clearly disappointed to have missed this. “And Lord Bolton backed out, claiming Lady Beauchamp had tricked him. Quite the scandal. And a lot of money to hush it up.”

“Obviously not enough,” Greg observed dryly. Henry Stowe, whom he had seen only briefly as yet, had written to him about a similar story, though Greg thought it had been a different suitor. Margaret didn’t want to marry, she wanted to be a nun—or did she? Henry had also mentioned a curious remark from Margaret demanding to know what Greg looked like, which had been dismissed by her mother of course. When she’d seen him in the courtyard Greg _knew_ she found him familiar. Perhaps she was not so much mad, or convent-bound, as waiting for the right person. “Well she’s neither yelled at nor thrown anything at me,” Greg informed George gruffly, “and I was just speaking to her. Keep your mouth shut, don’t need to make the girls more nervous.” George’s expression said it might be too late for that.

**

There was a banquet that night, for the guests’ benefit. Naturally Greg was seated next to the oh so charming Lady Beauchamp. “Where’s Lady Margaret this evening?” he asked, as soon as he deemed it polite (maybe sooner).

“Alas, Lady Margaret has a slight headache, and is taking a quiet supper in bed,” Lady Beauchamp claimed regretfully.

Margaret _was_ in her room, Greg could tell, but somehow he didn’t think it was voluntarily. “Is she afflicted with headaches often?” he asked, pitching it between concern and annoyance.

“Oh no,” Lady Beauchamp rushed to assure him. The merchandise was not defective. “It’s just overexcitement, from your arrival.”

“Ah. Well, that would overexcite anyone,” Greg deadpanned.

“Yes,” Lady Beauchamp agreed dismissively. “Lord Lestrade, I understand you spoke to Margaret earlier today? Near the chapel?”

She looked like she was trying to make him feel guilty about something. Perhaps to cover her own apprehension. “Yes, I did,” Greg agreed easily. “I didn’t get to greet her properly, I felt. Travel-stained and all.”

Lady Beauchamp could hardly argue with _that_. “I’m curious, my lord, how you found her.” Her tone was just a little too studied to be casual.

Greg tried to think of a phrase that would be considered complimentary, but without being laughably inaccurate. “She’s very… well-spoken,” he judged. “You must have provided her with excellent tutors.”

“Her father’s idea,” Lady Beauchamp sniffed. “I’m afraid she _reads_ a great deal,” she added, as if this was a disease. “I spoil my children, I’m afraid, what mother doesn’t?” she claimed with a nauseating smile. “What she needs is a firm hand. A man of experience in the world, who can guide her and mold her.”

Suddenly Greg did not want to be talking anymore about Margaret with this woman. “Yes,” he said abruptly. “How are your sheep this year?”

**

When he sensed Margaret leaving her room, Greg excused himself from the table and slipped upstairs. It wasn’t hard to find her despite the maze of corridors, and most of the servants who were supposed to be on guard had snuck down to either the banquet hall or the kitchen for scraps. Fortunately, if perhaps unwisely, she was also alone.

“Margaret!” Greg hissed from around a corner. She froze in surprise and he signaled to her in the dim light. “Come here.”

Her gaze intensely suspicious, she took a couple of hesitant steps forward. Then they heard voices down the hall—Margaret obviously wasn’t supposed to be where she was, either—and Greg grabbed her hand and pulled her into the window alcove, yanking the curtain shut to hide them.

For a long moment they were in close contact, both holding their breath to avoid attracting attention. Then the voices subsided and Margaret turned her head slightly to Greg with a pointed look. Quickly he backed off, leaning against the opposite wall of the alcove, so she wouldn’t feel like he was looming over her.

“Thought you were sick in bed with a headache,” he teased with a wry grin.

She did not return it. “And you’re supposed to be at the banquet,” she shot back.

“Are you avoiding me?” Greg wanted to know. He didn’t think it was true, but it was a reasonable guess for someone to make. “Because of what I asked you this afternoon?”

Her chin lifted. Margaret did not _avoid_ things, she faced them head-on. “My _mother_ decided I had a headache,” she told him, with just a touch of bitterness.

“Now why would she do that?” Greg asked her, curious to hear her answer.

Margaret looked away and decided he did not need to know her opinion on that. “You would have my consent,” she repeated, with a touch of sarcasm.

“I would.”

Margaret did not know much of the world, but she had learned a few things. “You would not give up the Beaufort fortune so easily,” she muttered.

“I have my own fortune,” Greg reminded her. “I don’t need yours.”

“All men want _more_ fortune,” she judged coolly.

“Many women, too,” he returned a bit cheekily, thinking of her mother.

Margaret snorted. “Then why _do_ you want to marry me?” she challenged.

That was the question Greg had been waiting for, both eagerly and with dread. If he did not make his case convincingly he would be in for a long wait. “Did you know,” he began slowly, “that Elder Lords can work magic?”

“Heretical nonsense,” Margaret scoffed automatically.

“No, it’s true. Give me your hand,” he suggested, holding out his own. She hesitated a moment, then placed her fingers lightly on top of his. He closed his hand around hers, gently, a tingle running through him at the contact. He suspected she felt it too and struggled to stay focused. “Your arm hurts,” he realized, probing gently along the connection she didn’t realize they had. “I would say, someone twisted it behind your back.” He imagined her mother doing so, perhaps along with admonishments to not show up at the banquet, and he was afraid his anger showed in his eyes when they met hers.

“It’s nothing,” Margaret claimed, looking away. Nothing she wasn’t used to. Two strong-willed people in an age that endorsed violence were likely to clash when one tried to subjugate the other.

“Let me fix it for you,” Greg offered. He made it a little flashier than it needed to be, her arm suffusing with warmth and even a faint glow. Cheap special effects, but her astonished expression showed they worked. And then because she was Margaret, she snatched her hand away. Greg was not offended. “I had a dream about you, Lady Margaret,” he went on, and her head snapped up. “That’s how it is with Elder Lords. Sometimes we dream about who we ought to marry. And then we have to go and find them.”

This resonated with her, he could tell. Margaret’s own abilities would be mainly latent, especially at her age, but bits and pieces could seep through. No doubt she would consider them visions from God. “Did _you_ have a dream about _me_ , Margaret?” he asked in a teasing tone.

Per usual she merely became more imperious, which frankly he loved. “If your _dream_ told you to marry me,” she began acidly, “all the more reason for you to dismiss my consent.”

Which was a good point, actually. “You can say no now, and I will desist,” Greg promised. “But I will keep coming back and asking again, until you say yes.”

Margaret was not impressed by his confidence. “And when do you imagine _that_ will be?”

“Perhaps when you run out of crockery to throw at the other fellows,” Greg quipped. There was a seriousness behind his words, though, which Margaret knew well; she looked out the clouded window and rubbed her arm absently, the one that should no longer hurt. If she had refused others because they weren’t him, it made no sense to refuse him as well, even if she knew he would come back. In the interim there would be more suitors, and her mother, to deal with.

He didn’t want her to feel backed into a corner, though. “I would be willing to wait,” he offered. “A long engagement, a couple of years perhaps. You could stay here longer, with your mother and your son—”

Staying longer with her mother was no inducement. Her son might have been a temptation, except—“He is not staying here,” she revealed bitterly.

“No?” He couldn’t say he was surprised; children of the elite were often traded around for raising, though usually at an older age.

“He’s being sent to Sir William Lassiter, in Essex,” Margaret conveyed. A long way from here, and from the Elder Lands.

“I see.” Greg did not know what else to say to her. “I’m sorry,” he offered anyway, and was comforted by her dismissal of it.

“Henry has an important destiny,” Margaret asserted, half to herself. Repeating the words seemed to soothe her.

“Yes.” He was one of _them_ ; when he got older he would remember this. “So do you, Margaret.”

“What do _you_ know if it?” she snapped, which made Greg smile.

“Come to Springdale, be its viscountess,” he tempted. “Leave your mother behind. We won’t invite her to visit.” That was alright with Margaret. “D’you know what was agreed in the marriage contract?” he asked casually. “You inherit all my estates when I die, even if we have no children. So all you have to do is outlive me, which shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Yes,” Margaret agreed tactlessly, and Greg laughed.

“Will you give me your answer then, milady?” he requested. “If it is no, then I will take my leave of your mother tomorrow.”

He thought from her expression that perhaps she didn’t want that. If she felt God had sent her a vision of him there was no question she would obey; but it was a heady and frightening thing to be asked to commit, when all her life she had been told she had no choice in the matter.

“Yes, I consent,” Margaret finally announced, her countenance grave.

In contrast Greg couldn’t keep the grin from his face. “You honor me, milady. Tell me, what finally swayed you?” he asked in an attempt to lighten the mood. “The title? The distance? My charm, perhaps?”

As ever Margaret was not amused, or pretended so. “God,” she answered succinctly.

“One could ask for no better endorsement,” Greg noted, still smiling. She could hardly refute _that_. For a moment they were silent. Greg was content to watch her, and know that he had won, or at least taken a huge step closer to his goal—he would not count his victory as complete until they were officially married and riding away from this place. Margaret, who was less certain about the specifics of her destiny, gazed sightlessly out the window.

“Where are you off to, then?” Greg finally asked her, and she came back to the present.

“To the nursery, to see Henry.”

“Can I come along?” Greg dared.

“No,” she shot down quickly, not unexpectedly. “But…” Greg indicated his interest. “Perhaps you could meet him tomorrow,” she offered, with great qualification.

“I would like that,” Greg assured her. “I’ve brought many people for you to meet as well.”

“Alright.”

Suddenly they were both reluctant to leave, but Greg knew his absence at least might have been noticed. “Tomorrow, then, milady.” He peeked out from behind the curtain and saw that the way was clear, and signaled to Margaret to go first. She slipped out and headed down the corridor, giving him a final backward glance, and Greg returned the way he had come, feeling considerably heartened.

**

A blanket was laid in the meadow behind the castle, under the shade of a tree, and after Margaret glared daggers at the nursemaid, they were left alone with baby Henry. He couldn’t stand yet but bobbled around in his swaddling, cooing and grabbing at things randomly.

“He’s got quite a grip,” Greg complimented, as the boy tugged on his finger.

“He’s very strong,” Margaret agreed, stroking his fine red hair. The Tudor coloring, her mother had called it, but Greg knew Henry would always have looked that way, no matter who his father was. Greg happened to be rather fond of children; some of the others, like Ben and Enid, preferred to keep them at a distance, especially if they weren’t old enough to have an intelligent conversation. Margaret had already admonished him about speaking to Henry ‘like a dog,’ however, which was apparently her interpretation of baby talk.

“That’s it, little lord,” Greg told him, trying not to sound too infantile, or whatever Margaret objected to. “You like the fresh air, do you?”

A squeal from the side distracted them and he saw some of the Parrish girls chasing the Beauchamp and Welles children, Margaret’s younger half-siblings. She was not particularly fond of them herself—her mother favored them, especially her eldest son Peter Welles, and did not encourage fraternization. “Your daughters are very merry,” Margaret stated, tactfully striving for a neutral tone.

“Yes, very,” Greg agreed fondly. “What have they to trouble them?” Margaret was still not sure it was proper. “I’m thinking of sending the eldest two to London, to Duke Holmes’s household,” he remarked. “Katherine and Matilda. That’s the dark-haired girl in green—”

“—and the blond in blue,” Margaret finished. “I remember.” And how dare he think she wouldn’t.

“I get them mixed up myself sometimes,” he claimed, tickling Henry’s bare foot. “Anyway, sending them to London, if you approve.”

“Why should _I_ approve?” Margaret scoffed at him. Despite her consent the night before, he was still somewhat suspect in her eyes.

“Well, they would be part of your household,” Greg replied casually. He wanted her to know he would not be making unilateral decisions, at least whenever possible. “Perhaps you’d rather have them with you.”

Margaret looked over at them again. “I will pray about it,” she decided, which Greg supposed was fair. “My mother is shocked and disturbed that I am letting you meet Henry,” she went on in a lighter tone, encouraging the baby to crawl to her. “I didn’t want anyone to meet him before.”

“Well, I’m honored,” Greg assured her, tugging Henry’s toe to make him laugh. He thought about repeating his promise to keep fighting for possession of the boy, but he didn’t want to bring her mood down. Although the next thing he felt he should mention might affect the mood anyway. “I think we probably won’t have any natural children,” he told her carefully, glancing up at her.

Her expression was hard to read. “You mentioned yesterday that you had none so far,” she remembered. “Because God wanted you to take care of your stepchildren.”

“Well, that’s only supposition,” Greg warned. “I’ve not actually had a note from Him on the subject.”

He half-expected Margaret to chide him for being flippant. “God wants you to take care of Henry,” she decided instead, helping the baby stand on wobbly legs.

“And I will,” Greg promised. “I thought I might send my stepson, Henry Stowe—the one who’s been here on my behalf—to Essex, near the Lassiters’,” he suggested, and Margaret’s eyes darted over to him. “He’s quite a craftsman—woodworking—and happy to go wherever he’s told, as long as he can practice his craft. He could report back about little Henry.”

“You would do that?” Margaret checked. It seemed a significant gesture to her. Maybe she was finally beginning to realize his sincerity.

“It’s little enough,” Greg admitted, “until we can get hold of him ourselves.” Now that he saw Margaret, and saw how happy she was with her child—the way her eyes lit up and she smiled, really smiled, when he was near—he wished he’d pushed harder for the boy, used magic to change Lady Beauchamp’s mind. He thought it was too late now, at least for this trip; it wouldn’t make sense for her to reverse course. Maybe next time.

“But I think we would not have more,” he reiterated. “Does that change your answer from last night?”

“You have not had your own children so far, but perhaps it was because of your wives,” Margaret suggested, and he just couldn’t tell how much she cared about this. “Were they not both rather old?”

“About my age now, when we married,” Greg confirmed, smirking at her tactlessness. Everyone must seem old to her; she could not be grouped with the children anymore, so she was always the youngest adult in the room.

“Well, perhaps it will be different with me,” Margaret said briskly, and Greg was definitely starting to get the idea she actually _didn’t_ want it to happen.

“Well, I don’t wish to shock you, my love,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “but there have been _other_ ladies. Younger. Before and after my marriages. Not during, though,” he added hastily, his attempt at being cheeky getting a bit muddled. He could be light-hearted, but not disrespectful. “So what do you think of that?”

“A man hardly ought to be praised for fulfilling his wedding vows,” Margaret judged, scoffing at him.

Greg rolled his eyes. “No, I mean about not having more children,” he clarified, as apparently clarification was necessary.

“Oh.” She gave it a little more thought, rocking Henry as he fussed. “I will accept God’s will in the matter,” she finally announced, which did not really clear things up for Greg. “I did not—I was not adept at being with child,” she finally confessed, scarcely glancing at him.

“Oh, you were sick all the time?” Greg guessed. She was hardly built to carry or give birth to a child. If she was an ordinary person the process might have killed her, or at least rendered her unable to bear more. “Well, no need to worry about it happening again, then. But there are a lot of children without good parents, or no parents at all,” he went on leadingly. “If you wanted to take any of them in, it would be alright with me.”

“Adopt a stranger’s child?” Margaret wrinkled her nose at the idea, which was a very typical one for the era. You might take in your dead sibling’s children, if you could afford to, but otherwise being an orphan was seen as the end of the line, a pitiable position in society—not the opportunity to join a _new_ family.

“You don’t have to,” Greg assured her. “Just something to think about.”

A shadow appeared over them. “Excuse me, milady,” interrupted the nursemaid.

“Go away,” Margaret snapped at her.

“Begging your pardon, milady,” the woman insisted, “but I’m to take him in now. It’s time for his nap.”

“We’re busy,” Margaret countered, though Henry _was_ beginning to look tired.

“Lady Beauchamp said,” the woman added, invoking the ultimate household authority. Across the lawn Margaret’s mother waved at them.

Margaret dragged the goodbye out but finally had to let him go. She watched the nursemaid carry her son into the house with a stony expression, then made as if to leave. Greg put a hand on her arm. “Stay with me a little longer, my lady,” he requested gently.

“I must go pray,” she replied stubbornly.

“Your mother expects you to be upset,” Greg murmured to her. “Stay and show her otherwise.” He released her arm, in case she wanted to leave anyway. Margaret stayed, though she was hardly merry, and Greg decided to change the subject. “Your mother mentioned something about another wedding coming up,” he went on in a light tone. “She’s not planning to marry off your little sister, is she?” The girl couldn’t be more than eleven.

“No, she plans to marry herself. Again,” Margaret reported.

“Really? Who’s her victim this time?”

This at least drew a burble of laughter from Margaret, more at his inappropriate phrasing, but still. “She may have her eye on your man you’ve had here,” she replied, and Greg choked a little. “Henry Stowe? Did you call him your stepson?”

“I was married to his stepmother,” Greg explained, “so close enough. Henry is, I think, a confirmed bachelor,” he added dryly. “Why would Lady Beauchamp be interested in _him_?”

“He’s very charming, I suppose,” Margaret suggested, as if she didn’t really think so herself. “And I’m sure she thinks he’s rich.”

“Then she is misinformed,” Greg snorted. Henry Stowe had apparently done his job of getting into the lady’s good graces a little _too_ well. Though, he figured most of it must be Lady Beauchamp’s own imagination. That made it amusing to picture. “Let’s see, if we were married and they were married, I would be your mother’s father-in-law,” he predicted.

The ridiculousness of that made Margaret giggle a little. “And I would be your son’s stepdaughter,” she added.

“Oh, and your mother’s mother-in-law,” Greg realized.

That was too much for Margaret. “I don’t think they will marry,” she said, calming a little, “once she realizes he isn’t independently wealthy.”

Greg liked hearing her laughter. “Let’s hope not. It all sounds very confusing.”

**

Greg had to check this rumor with Henry Stowe, who was frankly alarmed by it. Normally he was savvier than that—one reason Greg sent him to do these things—but he had recently broken with his companion and been distracted by a good-looking young man in the kitchens (which was another reason why Greg was positive he had no marriage plans afoot). Lady Beauchamp had not apparently gone very far with the idea yet, wanting to see if the marriage between Greg and her daughter worked out first; but now that one knew to look for her little gestures and comments, it seemed obvious. She was only in her mid-thirties or so and might easily produce more children for a husband who gave them something to inherit. Who was _not_ Henry Stowe, who had only a small inheritance from his father and what Greg provided for him as his liegeman—which was very comfortable and if Henry ever _did_ want to marry Greg would be happy to settle something on him, but he wasn’t exactly the Earl of Richmond. After Henry calmed down they had a good laugh about it, and Greg set him to investigating these Lassiters who were getting charge of baby Henry Tudor.

“—done well for himself as a squire for the Welles family, their branch in Essex—”

“Oh, that’s the connection, then,” Greg realized. “Is the household—”

“My lord! My lord!” Greg turned sharply when he heard Margaret’s voice, eyes widening as she came flying down the corridor at him.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked as she tried to catch her breath. His first thought was that the baby was sick.

“You must—you must not send Matilda to London!” Margaret burst out.

Greg blinked at her. “What?”

“I’ve had a vision from God,” Margaret told him intensely, clutching at his doublet even though he had no intention of wandering off right now.

He saw Henry Stowe roll his eyes a bit and shot him a reproachful look, then put his arm around Margaret and led her further down the hall. “What do you mean?” he questioned, taking the hand that gripped him.

“You asked me about your stepdaughters Katherine and Matilda—”

“Yes.”

“I prayed about it and God sent me a vision!” Margaret’s eyes gleamed with the joyful light of a fanatic, which was slightly at odds with her serious message. “You must not send Matilda. A terrible fate will befall her in London.”

“Okay,” Greg said slowly, trying to get a handle on the situation.

“Don’t you believe me?” Margaret asked sharply.

“No, of course I believe you, my love,” Greg promised her. “It’s just—alarming.” Between him and Duke Miles he knew nothing like an accident or illness would happen to the girls. But surely Margaret’s vision was precognition related to her true identity, however she interpreted it. “What sort of terrible fate?”

Margaret shook her head. “I’m not sure. But I saw her being sent home in shame and ruin. People looked very grave, and someone was apologizing to the Queen!”

“That’s very specific,” Greg observed, to buy time. He supposed it might mean Matilda had an affair with someone, a very wrong someone, perhaps even became pregnant. As long as it was consensual she wouldn’t be protected against such a thing. Someone she couldn’t hope to marry—a married man high up at court, even the King perhaps. He was known to like his sport and the Queen was known to dislike those mistresses without the sense to be discreet. An ordinary Englishwoman could be married off by the Crown after her service was done, but a lady of the Elder Lands was a foreign citizen, and Greg would almost certainly recall her home if this situation occurred.

Okay, it wasn’t exactly what Greg would’ve called a ‘terrible fate’—no one got hurt (physically), no wars were started—but certainly it would be unpleasant all around.

“My lord?” Margaret prompted.

“Oh, I was just trying to imagine what it might be,” he told her. “Nothing bad about Katherine?”

Margaret shook her head. “No, nor Elizabeth.”

“I wasn’t planning to send Elizabeth,” Greg noted. Though now if Matilda was out…

“I think it would be alright,” Margaret judged.

“Alright, well, I’ll think about that and talk to the girls,” Greg demurred. He wanted Margaret’s opinion but certainly wasn’t going to rush into anything. “Thank you for telling me.”

Margaret suddenly seemed to realize they were in a position that might be construed as intimate by current society and she tense. Greg took the hint and removed his arm from her shoulders, letting her pull her hand away. “You asked me to pray on it,” she reminded him (more or less true), “so I thought you would want to know.” Now that her big reveal was over the excitement was beginning to ebb, as well as her certainty that being familiar with Greg was acceptable, and her manner became more formal.

“Of course, milady, I appreciate it,” he promised, and she took her leave.

Finishing his business with Henry Stowe, Greg went to his room to think. He had no doubt Margaret’s vision was accurate, so now the question was, what to do about it? Send Matilda anyway, but admonish her about becoming anyone’s mistress? Warn Duke Miles so he could keep an even closer eye on her? The former seemed pointless and the latter more distress than Duke Miles likely wanted. The girls were there to make him look good, not get into trouble. Besides which, if trouble came and he had to call Matilda home, Margaret would be insufferable about it.

Better not to send her, then. Better overall yes, but not _really_ better when you were trying to explain to a teenage girl why her older and younger sisters got to go somewhere _she_ did not. It would be nice if she had her eye on someone in the Elder Lands, so he could suggest she come back home and get to know him better, but that was rather the point of sending her to London. With a sigh Greg decided to tell her the truth, except with a few judicious changes, and he sent for all three girls.

He left Katherine and Elizabeth sitting in the outer chamber, no doubt wondering which piece of mischief or bickering they were being chided for, and called Matilda in. Her manner was clearly one who expected to be in trouble, which just made Greg wonder what they’d all been getting up to lately.

“Sit down, my dear,” he started. The longer he hesitated the more nervous she got. “I’ve written to Duke Miles, in London, and he says he has places in his household for you, Katherine, and Elizabeth.” Her expression started to rise. “But you’re not going. The other two are.”

Her expression swooped back down again. “But why?” Greg opened his mouth to explain. “If this is about the stockings, that was all Elizabeth!” she tattled.

“What?”

“ _I_ told her hanging her stockings out the window was vulgar,” Matilda went on in a superior tone, “but she wouldn’t listen, even though the grooms are outside that window every morning—”

“Okay, enough,” Greg interrupted, rolling his eyes. “It’s nothing to do with that.”

“Oh.” Back to the problem at hand. “Then why can’t I go to London?”

Giving Matilda a sober look, Greg leaned forward and took her hand. “I did something I’m not supposed to do,” he confessed, which was sufficiently odd enough to keep her quiet. “I was worried about you girls going to London, so I took a little peek into the future.” Though obviously he hadn’t shared the full extent of his abilities with his dependents, they knew a few bits and pieces, including limits he had placed on himself.

“But you said you shouldn’t—”

“I know, exactly,” Greg emphasized. “But I worry sometimes, you know, so I checked.” He gave Matilda a significant look.

She swallowed hard. “And something bad happens to me,” she realized tonelessly.

“Now don’t get upset, sweetheart,” Greg assured her, putting his arm around her shoulders. “It’s not going to happen now. No, I’m not going to tell you what it was,” he added as she started to speak. “You’re going to come back home with me, and we’ll find something else interesting for you to do.” She sighed helplessly, clearly overwhelmed, and Greg kissed her temple. “I’m sorry, I know you’re disappointed.”

“Well—” Matilda began, as if she was going to say it wasn’t so bad for some reason. But then she couldn’t think of anything.

Greg appreciated her effort anyway. “Alright, you can go,” he said, releasing her. “Send your sisters in.” He moved back to a single chair, wishing he had a desk he could make the girls stand in front of. He wanted to seem more intimidating for this conversation, but wasn’t sure that would really help.

After seeing Matilda’s melancholy air, Katherine and Elizabeth entered the room with trepidation. “What’s wrong, sir?” Katherine dared to ask.

“I’ve written to Duke Miles in London,” Greg repeated, sternly this time, “and he has places in his household for you two.” The two girls blinked, the news not quite sinking in. “So after the wedding you’ll be leaving for London,” Greg added. “To go to court.”

He saw the moment they finally got it and their eyes lit up, their faces split with grins, and they bounced a little on their feet. Greg couldn’t help but smile a little too; it was nice, making people happy.

“Thank you, Papa!” they burbled.

“You’re welcome,” Greg replied. “But,” he added seriously, “London will be very different from what you’re used to. I expect you to behave yourselves and obey the Duke in all things.”

“Yes, Papa,” they murmured, but he suspected they were really thinking about parties and new dresses and handsome young men.

Then Elizabeth thought to ask, “Isn’t Matilda going?”

Greg had hoped they might forget about that. “No, it’s just you two.”

“But why?” Katherine wanted to know, which Greg supposed was admirably loyal. Her gaze slid to her sister. “Is it because of the stocking incident—”

“That was my fault,” Elizabeth confessed in a small voice. Score one for honesty.

“No, it’s nothing to do with that,” Greg replied, rolling his eyes. “But stop flashing your stockings about, or whatever you were doing. In London there will be a hundred pairs of eyes on you, looking for the smallest impropriety. I don’t want to hear any bad reports about you two.” He trusted Duchess Anthea would keep them in line.

“Yes, Papa,” they claimed, meek and obedient for the moment.

“Alright, you may go.” They scurried out, whispering excitedly to each other. No doubt they would soon pry from their sister the reason she was not accompanying them, and maybe that would sober them up a bit. Or further convince them _they_ were invincible.

**

The wedding went off smoothly. Greg tried not to think about it too much; he didn’t want to show more emotion than was 1) seemly or 2) realistic for his apparent situation. Margaret still seemed nervous. In a way asking for her consent almost made things worse for her—before, she could say she was subject to her mother’s will and fought against it all she could. But now, if she later realized her situation was worse than before, it would seem in some ways her own fault, because she had actively agreed. But the only way to soothe such fears was with time, Greg knew—in time she would realize that he would be a good husband to her, and not go back on any of his promises.

The wedding banquet had entertainers worthy of Agnes’s feasts, but rather too bawdy for Margaret’s taste, Greg suspected. They were seated next to each other, though with the noise in the room it was impossible to have a conversation. Occasionally he leaned over to whisper a comment in her ear, trying to make her smile, or to serve her some delicacy; he knew everyone was watching them and it wouldn’t do for them to appear to ignore each other, or for the bride to look like she was being fattened for slaughter. With a virgin bride you figured someone mean-spirited had been filling her head with tales of wedding night terror; with a widow and mother, you suspected she had experienced such tales first-hand. Now did not seem the right time to reassure her on such a delicate matter.

Finally the bride was led away, rather less boisterously than usual; Margaret had a way of quelling drunken tomfoolery with one cold glance. After a suitable amount of time had passed Greg left as well, waving off his servants and attendants who would rather go back to the feast anyway. Margaret was in her room and he even checked to be sure she was alone before he tapped on the door, then entered.

She was not in bed, though she was dressed for it, with a shawl wrapped around her night dress, and she had been sitting at a little table before the fire. She rose as he came in and in the dim light he could take her for older, someone he could have a real wedding night with, and his heartbeat quickened.

But she wasn’t that person, not yet, and he forced himself to round the table and sit down in the other chair, gesturing for her to do the same. “You looked very nice today,” he opened idly.

“My mother’s doing,” she replied immediately, displeased. “I found the dress too ostentatious.”

It was by no means what Greg would have called ostentatious, but he could see why she would think that. “Did you get enough to eat—”

“Yes.” She answered impatiently, wanting him to get on with whatever he had in mind. Many a man would quail under her gaze, Greg thought, the one that said, ‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’

He grinned and leaned on the table. “Margaret, you are so beautiful—” She made a scoffing noise. “—but you are too young for me. I’m not going to impose upon you.” This, finally, surprised her. “I would rather wait until you’re older, and we know each other better. What do you think of that?”

Margaret calculated. “Are you drunk?” she suggested, which made Greg laugh.

“No, I’m not drunk,” he assured her. “Are you saying you’re insulted?” he teased. “I suppose if you insist we could—”

“No,” she denied quickly, which was what he thought.

“You might find us unconventional in the Elder Lands,” he added by way of explanation. “It can be confusing.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Don’t mention it to anyone, though,” he suggested, a bit more seriously. “Non-consummation could be considered grounds for an annulment. And then you’d have to start all over again.”

That was something she would definitely rather avoid. “Alright.”

“You can go to bed if you want,” he suggested, after they just sat there for a moment.

“Where are _you_ going to sleep?” Margaret wanted to know. The whole thing was still a bit fishy to her.

“In the bed with you,” Greg pointed out. “There’s only one, after all. And it would look rather odd for a bridegroom to be caught sleeping on the couch after his wedding night.” She still sat there with a very suspicious look on her face. “It’s a big bed, Margaret,” he went on, rolling his eyes. “I’m not sure what possible game you think I could be playing here.”

Finally she sighed, unable to think of an angle that made sense. “As you wish,” she agreed, as if she was humoring him, and she rose and walked past him to the bed.

“Goodnight, Viscountess Springdale,” he added to her, a bit cheekily.

“Goodnight… my lord.” He smiled at that but kept his back to her as she settled into bed, pouring himself some more ale from the jug on the table. She was so tempting, and yet not—she was definitely not the only one confused here tonight, and he sat staring into the flames for a long while, until he thought she was probably asleep. He changed as well then and crawled into the large bed, close to her but not touching, hoping he would be able to get some sleep himself.

**

The next day Katherine and Elizabeth, with servants, attendants, and guards, set out for London. Thomas and Nancy Stowe went with them as chaperones for the trip. Greg reminded himself this would be a wonderful opportunity for them to see more of the world and meet new people; he certainly didn’t intend to keep them all trapped in the Elder Lands their whole lives. Right? Despite the fact that it was so much safer there. And they _wanted_ to go. And Miles would look after them.

So Greg tried to give them the usual fatherly advice that they would probably ignore, and not get overly worked up. He knew baby Henry would be starting his journey to Essex soon, now that Margaret was safely married off, and that helped him keep perspective—Henry was being taken away against his mother’s will as an infant who would thus not remember her or realize she was out there thinking of him. At least his girls were old enough to contact him if they needed something, and he was letting them go voluntarily.

Thomas Stowe carried a letter to Duke Miles introducing the girls to him. Since he was still sending two Greg hadn’t bothered to run the swap by Miles first, but he did embed a coded message in the letter explaining Margaret’s vision. He knew Miles would be interested in manifestations of her power, which were sure to increase as she got older and spent more time around their kind.

The left-behind Parrish girls were naturally upset at their sisters’ departure and Eleanor momentarily forgot her grown-up pretensions to fling her arms despairingly around Greg. Margaret, meaning well, offered to pray with them—that was her hobby and her comfort, so why should it not help others? Sensing they were about to rebuff her, Greg cheated a little and nudged Eleanor to agree, which surprised Frances and Matilda into going along, and the lot of them trooped off to the chapel. Which should keep them out of trouble for an hour or two.

**

The next day it was drizzling, a gloomy day for a gloomy purpose—baby Henry was heading off to Essex. Margaret held him until the last second, until someone had to take him from her, and Greg put an arm around her shoulders to keep her from running after the departing group. Lady Beauchamp looked at her with a sort of smug pity, the kind that said, ‘This is for your own good, and someday you’ll thank me.’ Greg didn’t think she would.

They were mostly alone in the yard by then, everyone else having drifted away since the meager excitement was over, but Margaret stayed where she was, face and body frozen. Only once the party had turned a corner out of sight did she allow Greg to move her indoors to the chapel. She didn’t like to cry in front of people; but once she started she couldn’t stop. Greg locked the door for privacy and held her close, murmuring in her ear.

Then he heard a slight rumble of thunder, and realized how hard it was now raining. The droplets coursed down the chapel windows… like tears… and Greg suddenly had a horrifying thought.

“Margaret, stop crying,” he told her sharply. “Margaret, stop!” He pushed her to her feet and gave her a little shake, then finally swooped in and kissed her—just a brief brush of the lips but it was enough to shock her into sensibility. Not sure what that said about _him_. But anyway—“The river! Where can we see it from?”

“The-the northeast tower,” Margaret stuttered, finally catching his meaning, or part of it, as they flew out into the deluge. The downpour could make the river Henry’s group had to cross swell and flood—perhaps not a problem if that meant they had to return to the castle for a couple of days, but a sudden storm could raise the river rapidly, in the midst of their crossing.

With supernatural strength Greg raced up the tower steps, Margaret at his heels, and as her tears dried up so did the rain, which was what he had predicted. From the top of the tower you couldn’t see the river _well_ and Greg pulled out a spyglass—didn’t everyone carry one of those around?—searching for a group of horses and riders.

“Do you see him?” Margaret asked anxiously, clutching at Greg’s arm.

“Yes,” he finally answered. “They made it to the far side.” He passed her the glass and while she was occupied he zoomed in of his own accord, to make sure baby Henry was still safely in the arms of his nurse, and that Henry Stowe was still there, tagging along. Everyone in the party seemed accounted for, if wet and muddy.

Margaret put the spyglass down but continued to stare in that direction. “Praise God he’s safe,” she said quietly, though Greg knew she wouldn’t have minded the river being impassable.

“Yes,” he echoed. “They’ll be with Harrington soon.” The grey clouds were still thick overhead but no more rain fell. “We can leave ourselves in a few days, when the river goes down,” he suggested casually.

Margaret turned to him with some surprise. “I thought you were to stay until the end of the month.”

He shrugged. “Do you _want_ to stay longer?”

“No.” No hesitation there.

“Well, let’s get home, then,” Greg said, trying to lighten the mood. “Springdale will be eager to meet its new mistress. Though,” he added dubiously, glancing around, “I expect the weather will be much the same as here. We can linger in Summerfall if you like.”

“I like the cooler weather,” Margaret assured him. “I have heard you use witchcraft to control the weather,” she went on, trying mightily to avoid judgment. “You must have no flooding rivers at all.”

“Very few,” Greg agreed. “Come on, let’s go back down.”

**

As eager as he had been to arrive, Greg was now equally eager to leave, if not more so. He was wedded and seemed to have made a good impression with Margaret, but he knew he wouldn’t feel comfortable until they were away from Lady Beauchamp’s gaze and he could be more himself again, and set the tone. He guessed she had learned Henry Stowe was no great catch, and despite fulfilling his end of the contract—Lady Beauchamp’s horses were now far richer in ‘oats’ than they had been before—he got the feeling his hostess was not well-pleased with him. Maybe it was that he didn’t seem old and infirm enough, or the way Margaret actually seemed to like him. Of course throwing crockery would have been embarrassing but he suspected Lady Beauchamp would prefer her daughter to be oppressed somehow. It probably seemed safer to her. Well, that was _his_ problem to deal with now, wasn’t it? None of her concern.

“Papa!” He turned to see Frances skipping down the corridor and slowed so she could catch up. Young lady though she was, she threw her arms around him in an easy hug. That kind of affection was something Lady Beauchamp would never know, despite all her children.

“Hello, sweetheart. Have you been packing?” Greg asked automatically. The river was not yet traversable—he suspected Margaret was crying in secret somewhere—but eventually it would have to be, either naturally or with a little help, and he wanted to be ready to go when it was.

“Yes, Papa,” she claimed. “Are you very eager to leave?”

She asked this innocently enough. “Aren’t you?” Greg shrugged, glancing around for his hostess’s servants. “We could get weather like this back home, with better food and fewer fleas.”

Frances giggled. “And I think you are very fond of Lady Margaret!” she added in a teasing tone.

Greg actually cringed. “My G-d, is it that bad?” he was forced to ask.

Frances nodded gleefully. “Matilda said you stopped yourself from saying an oath when you trod in a dog mess, because Lady Margaret was there.” Proof positive, that.

Greg did not like this memory. “What’s wrong with the idea of basic cleanliness, hmm?” he complained by way of distraction. “Who just leaves a big pile of dog sh—”

“Papa!”

“—in the middle of the main hall?” he went on.

“And yesterday you conjured an apple for her,” Frances accused playfully.

Greg did not realize this had been witnessed, though it seemed _everything_ was—for a castle this place was beginning to feel claustrophobic. “She’s been very sad about her son leaving—” He couldn’t exactly explain how her crying was keeping the river up, so he’d taken to distracting her.

“You said you weren’t to go around conjuring things!” Frances interrupted. “You wouldn’t conjure pink ribbons for Eleanor.”

“No.”

“You would conjure pink ribbons for Lady Margaret, I daresay!” Frances giggled.

“Can’t imagine her ever asking for any,” Greg replied dryly. “Anyway, what’s wrong with being fond of my wife? That’s hardly a crime.”

Frances squeezed his arm and rested her head against his shoulder. “I think it’s very becoming,” she claimed, which sounded like the sort of thing a teenage girl said when she was teasing her father. “She’s just very…”

Frances trailed off. “What?” Greg prodded. “Come on, out with it.”

“She’s not what I thought you would like,” Frances admitted.

Greg wrinkled his nose. “Why in G-d’s name are you thinking about what I would like?” he demanded, feeling slightly ill. Apparently he was watched even at home.

“Well, she’s not much like Abby Baker,” Frances observed, and at this Greg really did pull away and stare at her. “Or the dairymaid—I think her name was Alice? Papa, you’re not really very discreet,” she chided.

“Apparently not,” he was forced to admit. One could not even have a totally consensual fling with a nice unmarried lady, after one’s own wife had passed away, without one’s own daughters commenting on it.

“They were very buxom and easy-going ladies,” Frances continued blithely, to Greg’s growing horror, “while Lady Margaret is—”

“We are not having this conversation,” Greg finally sputtered. “This should not be a topic of conversation _anywhere_ —” He suspected Frances was not really chastened. “Look, let’s—let’s just say it’s a magical thing, alright?”

If he’d thought that would dissuade Frances, he was quite wrong. “Magic?” she pounced eagerly. “How so? Is Lady Margaret magical?”

“Oy, stop with that,” he told her, serious now. “I don’t think she really approves of magic, so let’s not talk about it around her.”

Frances sighed as if this was a silly thing she was willing to do for him. “I expect _she_ thinks she’s magical, or a saint anyway,” she went on. “She does talk a lot about God, like they’re best friends or something.”

Greg seized on a chance to turn the conversation. “How are you and the other girls finding her?” he probed. “You go to chapel with her every day?” Of course everyone attended the daily morning Mass, but Margaret also liked to spend additional time in spiritual contemplation.

“We go when she asks us to,” Frances hedged artfully, “though sometimes we are not around to be asked.”

Greg suspected the avoidance was deliberate. “Well just be glad it’s only on request, and not a standing order,” he warned her. “ _Yet_. And you girls gossip too much,” he added, trying to sound stern. That rarely went well. “That’s always what you’re doing when she redirects you.”

Frances looked affronted. “That’s not true! Who told you that?”

“Margaret.” Frances huffed. “And I saw it myself, so don’t get sulky,” he added. “Once we’re home and you’re back in the regular routine maybe there will be less need for redirection.”

This made Frances think of something else which cheered her. “Lady Beauchamp was scandalized that we knew Latin _and_ Greek, and the parts of flowers and all the capitals,” she relayed proudly.

“So I heard.” Lady Beauchamp was the type who was suspicious of too much education, if there could ever be such a thing. Greg did not see why his charges should not know all there was to know in the world—whole disciplines hadn’t even been invented yet, so it was a much more attainable goal than in later centuries. “Maybe Margaret would like to learn with you as well.”

“I think she would,” Frances ventured. “I think she was impressed by my books but she was too proud to ask to borrow one.”

Greg tutted. “First of all, they’re _my_ books,” he corrected, “so they’re Margaret’s as well and she can use them whenever she wants. And second,” he went on, before Frances could protest, “she probably hasn’t spent much time around girls her own age, who were equals and not servants. She probably doesn’t even know how to talk to you.” Frances had not considered this, he could see. “So maybe _offer_ her a book, alright, sweetheart?” He kissed her temple affectionately, not wanting her to feel chided.

“You said we should make her feel welcome,” Frances remembered. She seemed slightly downcast now, apparently feeling as though she’d forgotten her duty.

“No time like the present,” Greg encouraged, seeing Margaret wander past the window outside looking melancholy. “Try to cheer her up, alright? And then make sure you pack!” Greg sent the girl away, hoping they would soon be able to leave this place.

**

Finally the river was passable—Greg had helped it settle, but only a little, which he felt was acceptable—and they were loading up people and possessions to leave. Lady Beauchamp was stingy with the goods she let Margaret carry away, and Margaret wasn’t terribly concerned with the gold plate and silk dresses—her preferred goods were well-made and expensive but less ostentatious. Greg wanted everything that had been promised in the contract, on principle, but didn’t bother fighting for anything else if Margaret didn’t care.

They were saddled with extra people, as well—Margaret’s ladies, daughters of local nobility and knights and liegemen to Lady Beauchamp, who were allegedly honored to serve Lady Margaret and be instructed by her. Because you had to do _something_ with girls, and whatever else you might think of her, Lady Margaret ran a respectable household. Though the prospect of traveling to the Elder Lands had caused a few to drop out on their parents’ orders—but there were always new ones trying to crawl in. Greg gave them little notice beyond common courtesy; ambitious girls like that were just the sort to think being a viscount’s mistress was a good stepping stone to greater things, and he didn’t need that kind of headache.

Corralling people for a move like this was always a logistical nightmare. You got almost everything set, then while you were rounding up stragglers, everyone who _had_ been ready wandered off. Now Margaret was the one missing, and while he might actually start off without one of his daughters, knowing she would catch up suitably chastened, it seemed rude to do that to his new wife on their first journey together. “Keep them here, in line!” he ordered as he looked around the muddy courtyard impatiently. “We are about to leave, no one gets down.” He pointed at Eleanor specifically to hold her on her horse, and she acted like she had no idea what he meant.

Greg stomped back into the castle, heedless of the mess he was leaving on the flagstones. Obviously these people didn’t care much about cleanliness. He stopped a servant girl in the hall. “Hey, have you seen Lady Margaret?” She glanced fearfully at a side room, some kind of parlor, and Greg headed towards it. As he approached he could hear Lady Beauchamp’s lecturing tone coming from within and rolled his eyes. Maternal words of wisdom, he thought sarcastically, opening the door without knocking.

He missed Margaret’s reply—she could be blisteringly cold—but not the sharp sound of her mother slapping her across the face. Instantly his temper surged, throwing itself dangerously against the cage he kept around it, and the furniture rattled as he strode across the room. Outside the sky darkened ominously.

“You forget yourself, Lady Beauchamp,” he snapped at her, moving between her and Margaret. She went pale, seeing his amiability vanish for the first time.

Margaret tugged on his arm. “Let’s go. My lord?” He tore his eyes off her mother to glance at her. “Let’s go.”

As much as Greg would like to turn his mother-in-law into a toad for a few hours—a _real_ toad, that was—he decided it was wiser to make a clean break. “Of course,” he agreed with Margaret, and giving her mother one more warning glance he led Margaret out the door, a hand at her back.

Instead of going back to the courtyard, however, he ducked off into a corner, pulling Margaret with him. “You alright?” he asked, turning her face to see the mark on it.

“It’s nothing,” she told him matter-of-factly. She wasn’t even upset by it, that was the sad thing—happened too often for that. She was much more curious about his own reaction.

“Well, here.” Greg cupped her reddened cheek and healed it with a burst of soothing coolness. “Don’t want anyone to think I beat you,” he added. Her intense stare made him uncomfortable—somehow _he_ was the weird one, for not wanting to see his wife smacked around? In this time and place, yes—unless he was only upset that his position as disciplinarian was being usurped. He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “You ready to go?”

Margaret was poking at her cheek. “Yes.”

He took her hand. “Alright then. Let’s get out of here.” He went back to the courtyard and put her on her horse, rolling his eyes as he saw a couple of unmounted animals. The sky had cleared—he was determined their journey would be dry, at least concerning any river crossings—and he gave the signal to set off, leading the way with the boy holding his colors behind. Those who were slow would catch up, he was confident. Normally there might have been a bit of ceremony, Lady Beauchamp giving them her blessing and all, but Greg wasn’t waiting around for that and he suspected Lady Beauchamp wasn’t either. He glanced back to be sure Margaret had migrated to the inside of the pack, surrounded by ladies, and then plunged on ahead, certain he would not relax until after the river was crossed.


End file.
